


Father/Son

by elemsee



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Gen, parental angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 17:09:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20697062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elemsee/pseuds/elemsee
Summary: The van der Linde gang is an incomplete puzzle these days, each remaining member a worn down piece that no longer seems to fit in its allotted space. They're scattered, and he could so easily sweep them all up and rebuild if he really tried. But he's lost without Hosea, and the grief has made a monster of him. Monsters cannot rebuild — destruction is all they know.





	Father/Son

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this a month ago, but got distracted by Fool (the Sean MacGuire one shot I posted - do check it out if you're interested ;D) and it got abandoned. Then last night while trying to dodge university assignments I rediscovered the document, rediscovered all my angsty Dutch feels, and this was finally completed. 
> 
> Some beady eyed members of the GTA fandom will know where the title of this one shot came from. ;)
> 
> As always, if you're here then thank you for stopping by, enjoy the story and please consider taking the time to buy me a Ko-Fi - the link is in my ao3 profile! <3

Dutch is lost without Hosea.

His partner in crime, his guiding light, the anchor that always _just about_ kept him from teetering over the edge. Dutch feels this loss so deeply — it's worse than Annabelle, they all reckon. They're all whispering, hushed voices constantly bouncing around the parameters of their camp at Beaver's Hollow. Gossiping, curious, afraid.

He's lost without Hosea, and the grief hardens his soul beyond repair. He's as afraid as they are, but he can't admit it — he's truly all they've got left now. The grief makes him tough yet weak all at once, and Micah's constant words in his ear are beginning to make more sense than ever before. All their eyes are cruel, judgmental and harsh — _their minds are too tiny to understand,_ Micah tells him. _They just don't _get_ you, Dutch, not like I do._

The van der Linde gang is an incomplete puzzle these days, each remaining member a worn down piece that no longer seems to fit in its allotted space. They're scattered, and he could so easily sweep them all up and rebuild if he really tried. But he's lost without Hosea, and the grief has made a monster of him. Monsters cannot rebuild — destruction is all they know. 

But even while trying to navigate the treacherous waters of his own crisis, he still finds time to watch her every single day. His love. She's as effortlessly beautiful now as the day they met, cascading hair and full red lips, but these days her eyes are full of despair every time they find his. It's to be expected: he continuously disregarded her in pursuit of his own success, and deep down he knows that. 

He watches her from a distance, in conversation with Arthur. Arthur looks worn and ragged, bloodshot eyes and paper skin, and although he never implicitly states it Dutch knows something is very wrong. _Oh, my boy._ But Dutch knows that Arthur isn't on his side in this any longer. His son is not his son anymore, but just another name to add to the list of his enemies. It wounds him — but the pain doesn't simmer and burn on his chest like these sorts of wounds used to; now it's like a paper cut, irritating yet fleeting. He's lost too many to let the wounds burn him anymore. Some days Dutch wishes Arthur had died with Hosea, so he could remember him without that flash of contempt, the one he feels deep in his bones every time they lock eyes across camp. 

Some days Dutch just wishes he had died himself.

As time goes on and things continue to fall apart, he finds less time to watch her. He barely notices the way her belly is growing, hardly bats an eyelid at the way Tilly rubs her lower back as she throws up every single morning without fail. And every day she desperately hopes he'll notice, and sweep her up into his arms — but he never does. He's so focused on reaching the end goal that he seems to forget why he's doing it in the first place. Or perhaps the harsh truth is that he's too lost in the idea of self preservation to care about whether anyone else reaches the end goal with him.

One night he lays awake on his cot, tired eyes glaring at the worn fabric ceiling of the tent, and he swears he can hear her crying. That hitch in her breath tugs at his heartstrings, if only for a second — and then the memory of Micah's words wash over him again, a crashing wave that sweeps him away from the shores of sentimentality. _She's always talking to Morgan these days. They're surely planning something. _

Dutch rolls over in his cot, facing away from the sound of her distress, and closes his eyes, begging for sleep to take him away from the conflict eating at his insides.

When he rises the following morning, there's an enveloped letter perched next to his pillow. 

_My darling Dutch, _

_Somewhere along the way you lost the man you once were, and for my sake and yours I cannot stay to watch you destroy all that is left of you._

_I deserve to be free. We deserve to be free, free to live a life far from the constant imminent threat of the wolves at our backs._

_Our time is passed, my love. But know this: my heart will always be yours, and a part of you will always remain with me. _

Later that same day, as he turns and walks away from the sounds of Micah's pleas and the sight of Arthur's dying form, he wonders if perhaps grief never turned him into a monster. Perhaps he was a monster all along.

* * *

Life on the run does little to no wonders for a man, and Dutch van der Linde is certainly no exception to that rule. He spots himself in the reflection of a bar window one night, that unfortunate mix of dim lighting and unflattering shadows daring to warn him of just how old he truly is.

He keeps his hair short, a stark contrast to his younger days of dark curls tucked tightly at the nape of his neck. He remembers how the back of his neck would always sweat when they were in Shady Belle, especially when he wore his hat. He remembers, and he remembers Hosea and Arthur, but he's long since forgotten what their voices sounded like. A blessing, he considers, that it means he can't hear their ghosts torment him any longer. 

He also remembers _her_, though he isn't sure if she's a ghost of the living or the dead. 

He's so lost in the thoughts behind his eyes that Dutch barely registers the sound of small footsteps in his direction — so quiet they're almost like puffs of air among the ground. But the jangle of his money bag is unmistakable, and at once he's on the offense, spinning around to catch a glimpse of the thief as he presses a single hand cautiously to his holster. 

He expects to be greeted with a pair of eyes in his line of sight. And while he does see a pair of eyes, defiant even in the dark, they are much lower to his than he initially expected. The thief is all but a small boy.

Small, but fast — the boy is as smooth as liquid as he spins around, darting around the corner into a back street and away from Dutch's view. Dutch follows with haste, though his feet don't carry him as quickly as they did in his heyday. He's not pleased at the idea of chasing a child around a town as populated as this one, though luckily it's relatively quiet late at night. Still, he doesn't want to attract any undue attention — it's the last thing he needs. 

The chase is short, and Dutch can tell the boy is inexperienced as he stands cornered between a wall and a high gate. The fear in his young eyes is impossible to miss, his hands trembling as he clutches the money bag close to his chest. Dutch feels a sudden yearning to his own childhood, the days long before crime was all he knew.

"I believe that's mine," comes Dutch's voice, holding out his hand while his heart still pounds wildly with the sudden exertion, "Now you shouldn't go round takin' things that don't belong to you, should you?" 

His tone is a touch towards aggressive, and while he wouldn't go so far as to harm a young child, Dutch knows that the boy doesn't know that. He knows he will win this one through words alone — a kind of achievement he hasn't secured in a long time. Life was significantly easier in the days when he could talk his way out of trouble.

The young boy hands back Dutch's money bag without a second thought. "I'm sorry, sir! I'm sorry!" he pleads, and his eyes flicker to Dutch's holster, the exposed handle of his revolver glinting in the moonlight.

But as the boy thrusts his arm forward, Dutch sees it, and just for single second he believes fate is such a thing that can exist.

"What is that?" Dutch asks, clear trepidation in his voice. His money bag is firmly clipped back upon his hip now, but instead of walking away he's knelt down in front of the boy, finger pointing at an item clipped to the boy's shirt. A gold encrusted brooch, with dotted pearls surrounding it and a beautiful ruby butterfly engraved in the center. The sight of it makes Dutch's stomach flip over, uncomfortable, in a way it hasn't done in _years_.

"You can't have it, it's mine!" the boy exclaims, slapping his hand over it protectively, a rogue lock of dark curly hair obscuring his eye as he shakes his head wildly. 

"I didn't ask if I could have it, did I? I asked where you got it."

The young boy hesitates, but the antagonistic furrow of the elder man's brow makes him comply. "It's my Momma's! Please, sir, it's my Momma's favourite!"

He remembers, then. 

He remembers. 

_"Why, that's a fine piece of jewellery you've got there, Miss. I dare say I've never seen a piece quite like it." _

_"Oh, why thank you, Sir." She giggles shyly, her fingers tracing the pearls of the brooch, her eyes failing to meet his enraptured gaze. "It's my favourite. My Daddy gave it to me when I was just a little girl. I'd never part with it."_

_"Such beauty," he says, his voice breathless, and when she finally glances up to look at him, he isn't looking at the brooch - his eyes are locked upon hers._

When Dutch slips back from dreams into reality again, the young boy is staring intensely at him with wide brown eyes. Eyes the colour of the earth, rich and full of such life. 

Van der Linde eyes. 

Dutch's tone is deliberately gentler then. "What's your name, young man?"

"I — Daniel, sir. My name is Daniel."

_Daniel._

"Well, Daniel, how's about this, son," Dutch says, and he feels the breath catch in his throat on the word _son_, "I'll do you a deal. I'll pretend you didn't try stealin' from me, and in return you'll pretend you never saw me. What do you say?"

Daniel cocks his head at that, curious. "Why do I need to pretend that, sir?" He drops his voice to an endearing whisper. "Are you... are you a bad man?" 

Dutch can't help but laugh at that, though the gruff bark that escapes his lips sounds colder than he'd planned it to. He leaves his wordless response hanging in the air alone, letting it speak for itself. 

He reaches into his money bag, pulling out a ten dollar bill and pressing it firmly into Daniel's hand. The young boy inspects it immediately, eyes wide with astonishment as though it's more money than he's ever seen before in his short life. 

Dutch's lips are pressed into a thin line as he finally rises up from his kneeling position, his legs stiff and aching. Every now and then his body revels in reminding him of his age.

Against his better judgment he asks the next question. _Who's your mother?_ Daniel hesitates with understandable suspicion before he answers but, when he does answer, it gives Dutch the confirmation he needed. It _is_ her. 

He is lost for words now — nothing in the world could have prepared him for this moment, and while his demeanor appears calm to the outside world he feels like there's a gaping hole in his chest, screaming of disdain and regret for all the losses life keeps wanting to throw at him. In an ideal world, he could have been Daniel's father. 

Then again, in an ideal world, perhaps he would have been the ideal man. The kind she wanted. The kind they had all once _needed_. 

"Go home, Daniel," is all Dutch can manage to say now as he considers the young boy, "Go to your Mother, and you listen to me —" Daniel finally forces his gaze away from the bill to meet Dutch's eyes, "— you take care of her. Do you hear me?" 

Daniel looks puzzled for a moment, clearly confused at this complete stranger's interest. But then he smiles, and Dutch nearly keels over at that. That smile is hers. 

"Yes sir, I will."

With that the young boy is gone, leaving the elder man standing alone in the alleyway, moonlight bathing his weary features. The memories are exhausting, memories hitting emotions he didn't even know he still had, tugging at his heart to yearn for the most impossible of dreams. 

He wonders what she would say if she ever saw him again, if he could seek her out. Immediately he dismisses the thought — their life and love had long since been a wasteland, a garden of dead flowers he'd actively chosen to leave to rot. _I deserve to be free_. She does. And so does Daniel. He hopes Daniel grows up to bring pride to the van der Linde name in a way that Dutch never could for his own father. 

Dutch leaves the town and vows never to return, haunted by the sound of his son asking him if he was a bad man.

Some time later, Dutch is sought out by John Marston. One of his other sons. This son _knows_ he is a bad man. Dutch thinks of Hosea, of Arthur, of the family they once were, the glory days of their past. He failed them all.

But he wouldn't fail Daniel. He couldn't; she hadn't given him that chance. Bitter though he once was, now he is grateful for the decision she'd made so long ago. 

_Our time is passed. _

He leans back on the mountain top to place his fate in the hands of gravity and, as he closes his eyes he sees nothing but the smiling faces of the family he failed, beckoning him with open arms across the shore.


End file.
